


A New Arrangement

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Burns, Cock Warming, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Injury Recovery, Insecurity, Loneliness, Masks, Masturbation, POV Female Character, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Prostitution, Scars, Shameless Smut, Slow-ish burn, Smut, Strip Tease, Sugar Daddy, Vaginal Fingering, facesitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: Left with severe burn scars all over his body, Dr. Frederick Chilton has retreated from the world, and is never seen without a mask. That's when you enter his life, hired to handle end-of-life arrangements in case of another (more successful) attack.When your job is done, will you accept his offer to pay for a different kind of service?
Relationships: Dr. Frederick Chilton/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	1. An Eyes Wide Shut Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Kinktober oneshot, but I thought I'd try adding... chapters? Instead of just immediate sex? 
> 
> Mild warning for body horror for lots of kissing Chilton's lipless face

An uneasiness swam in your gut as you rang the doorbell of the looming mansion that looked too expensive for you to be touching. Perhaps because you did not usually make house calls, or perhaps because this house in particular glared judgmentally down at you from the red blinking eyes of a half-dozen security cameras. 

It was the centerpiece of a swanky gated community outside Baltimore, and you had come here for one reason: a man named Frederick Chilton was preparing for his death.

People don’t think about how much there is to take care of, from advanced directives, to living wills, estate planning, funerals, calculating life insurance requirements… That was what your startup company dealt with: end-of-life planning. You were the one-stop-shop for all of it. A sort of death concierge service.

People assumed from your job that you were compassionate. That your heart was wide open with nurturing and a desire to hug people on the worst day of their life.

The truth was, you were a glorified accountant, and you did not like making home visits. They could get too personal. Too emotional. But this client was very fussy, particular, and most importantly, very wealthy, and he had insisted. He would only do business over the phone, email, and any in-person meetings would be at his home, not your office.

So here you were. At his doorstep. Praying that you wouldn’t have to hold anyone’s hand while they cried.

Or worse—that he wasn’t just some creep luring you out here. In his early forties, this guy was younger than your usual clients, which either meant he was dying of a tragic terminal illness, or he could afford the sort of lawyers to make murder charges go away. Maybe he was stalking you? A string of bad dates had left you paranoid.

So your heart jumped at the clank of the deadbolt when he opened the door. And then it leaped clear out of your throat when you saw him.

He was wearing a sharp double-breasted suit and tie (complete with an old-fashioned gold tie pin) and leaning on an audaciously silver-embellished cane, but the thing that made you vomit up your vena cava was the _fucking mask._

He was wearing a Venetian masquerade mask that covered his entire face with smooth, sculpted white porcelain. Fine engravings serpentined around the eye sockets, inlaid with silver and black, as if the mask were wearing its own mask.

 _“Nope.”_ You backed up from the door. “Oh no. No way. Sorry, I am not getting dragged into some _Eyes Wide Shut_ thing.”

His eyes, though a bit shadowed, were visible enough to for you to see their dramatic rolling skyward, paired with an equally annoyed sigh. “Do not flatter yourself,” he said tersely. “Apparently you do not know who I am?”

“Should I?” You narrowed your eyes. Fuck. You knew you should’ve googled his name.

“I suppose count myself lucky my misfortune is not so public. Do you recall the Dr. Frederick Chilton who was maimed and set on fire by the Red Dragon last year? It was in the papers. I have a clipping of it framed,” he said dryly. “My book, The Dragon Slayer was on the New York Times Best Sellers list for ten weeks.” He scoffed when you showed no sign of recognition of him, personally.

“The Dragon…” you nodded. “Yeah, I remember that was all over the news. He set you on fire?!” You definitely should have fucking googled him. Now you felt like an asshole.

“Given the state that maniac left me in, I have the choice to be gawked at for my disfigurement, or for the tedious quirk of wearing a mask. I prefer the latter.” His voice had a slight sort of lisp to it, suggesting the placement of his injury affected his mouth or tongue. “Being maimed near death is precisely why I contracted your services—one can never plan too early when one associates with the criminally insane. Now if you are quite finished? Believe me, if I wished to engage in an ‘ _Eyes Wide Shut_ thing,’ I would hire one of the many high-end escorts Baltimore is home to… not some drab clerical worker.”

Your eye twitched. You were not insulted the snobby weirdo didn’t want to fuck you. That was a good thing. You forced yourself to smile and your jaw creaked like an old wood floor with the effort.

“More people should be planning ahead proactively, so you’re setting a good example,” you chirped, towing the company line. “All right, let’s get to work. Sorry about the misunderstanding. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Chilton.” You introduced yourself, extending your hand for a professional shake.

He leaped backward, nearly tripping over his cane in the process, as if you were extending a poisonous snake. The mask stayed perfectly calm, but his eyes flashed. “It is Dr. Chilton. _Doctor._ ” he hissed. “I did not spend eight years in medical school to have my proper title ignored.”

“Sorry— _Doctor_ Chilton.”

You followed him inside, never in your life more certain you were going to hate somebody.


	2. Dark Curtains Over the Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Chilton is a lonely man.

When Dr. Frederick Chilton was lying in an oxygen chamber in the hospital, he imagined his triumphant return to the world, wearing his scars as a bitter badge of pride for all to see. They would be a reminder of how he had been wronged. A ticket to the top of the best-sellers list for his book.

Then the doctors told him how long it could take to find a donor match for his missing pieces. There was not enough of his own healthy tissue left to reconstruct his lips. It was a problem which could not be solved any faster by throwing money at it. It might take years before just the right donor dropped dead.

Scars were one matter, but how was he meant to attend dinner parties without lips?

He tried a half-mask, like Mason Verger used to wear, hiding just his toothy, drool-prone mouth from polite company. But it wasn’t enough. His eyebrowless forehead mocked him in the bathroom mirror. His skin was too pink, too pale as it healed. Dressing to the nines could not erase the shame he felt at himself anymore. No perfect natural-hair wig, or thousand-dollar suit, or accessory could disguise him well enough.

The book would be promoted _without_ him. Any interviews could be conducted by phone, or with his publisher. His face would not be fodder for publicity.

By the time he emerged from the hospital ten months later, he resolved that no one should see him this way.

* * *

Dark curtains were draped over each window. Outside was sunny and warm, but stepping through the door, you were plunged into a deep, oppressive cave in which you imagined bats would love to roost. It took your eyes a few minutes to adjust and take in your surroundings.

Frederick Chilton’s home was pristine and impersonal: a modern Los Angeles mansion plucked from the dry hills and plunked down in the green suburbia of Maryland. The modern aesthetic surprised you. Chilton himself looked out of place in it. The doctor conjured up a specific, old-world kind of wealth—one that belonged in cigar lounges, baroque ballrooms, and dusty libraries with vaulted stone ceilings. The theatrical, eccentric kind of wealthy that goes around wearing Venetian masks. 

He was a sepia-tinted ghost haunting the clean white walls. A relic of an ostentatious bygone era he was too young to remember.

It all seemed terribly lonely, you realized—this giant impersonal house, empty save for one odd-mannered occupant—as he led you into the study. Other than the security guards at the gate, there were no other staff. No maids or butlers scuttling about. Quiet. He must have had cleaners to keep the building as spotless as it was, but based on his clear discomfort talking to you, you imagined he holed himself away when they were working and avoided all but the barest necessary interaction.

The study was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and decorated with colorful modern furniture. Toward the back, it contained a large mahogany desk that seemed just as out of place as Chilton alongside the minimalist office chairs over which you could conduct your business.

You sat at opposite ends of the wide desk. It put you at ease after your initial fear that he was a pervert, but also saddened you how naturally he keep as much distance as possible, as if you were emitting an unpleasant noise at a pitch only his ears could hear. When he spoke, he was charming enough (at a practiced, superficial level), but your conversation felt stilted and uncomfortable.

Maybe you weren’t going to hate him at all. Sympathy began to chip away at the brusque impression he had made upon you.

Family is usually a client’s first concern. Will their family have enough money when they’re gone? Which of their loved ones will make medical decisions if they are unable? As Dr. Chilton began the overtures of what he would like to accomplish, friends and family were never mentioned. He wanted to split the bequeathing of his estate between various charitable and academic organizations.

He was hoping to get something with his name on it.

That told you he was either just a selfish asshole, or his deep loneliness pre-dated his disfigurement and isolation from the world. You had a feeling it was the latter. 

His finances were vast, and his plans complicated, so they were going to take a long time to sort out. But you hadn’t even gotten through half of the hour-long appointment when he got bored, and zoned out. 

You scowled. He was asking for more than any other client—stuff you were going to have to spend hours looking into when you got back to the office—and he couldn’t even take this seriously? Naturally. Why would a rich, elitist _doctor_ have any respect for you?

When you cleared your throat to draw back his focus, he abruptly asked you leave. No sooner had you arrived than you found yourself back out on the sidewalk, mouth agape, blinking in the bright sunlight.

What a fucking asshole. You hated him. You definitely hated him.


	3. He's Such a Weirdo

“He was such a weirdo! You have no idea—I legit thought it was going to be some creepy sex party thing,” you laughed, leaning over the top of Roxy’s cubicle.

The plump woman scrunched her face with flawless purple makeup in disgust. “Oh my god,” she squealed. “Do _not_ go back there. Get Bobby to take it over. Seriously.”

“Seriously,” you groaned, although you in fact meant the opposite. The hell you were going to give up a big client to the office playboy.

Maybe you would have to eventually. Dr. Chilton did not seem to like you very much, and to be fair, you really put your foot in your mouth right off the bat and never actually apologized for it. Come to think of it, you could hardly blame him for being a bit churlish.

Three days later, you had another chance. You vowed to start this meeting off on a better foot.

You’d looked him up this time so you wouldn’t stumble face-first into any pitfalls. One of the first headlines was “Chesapeake Ripper Suspect Cleared of Charges After Near-Fatal Shooting in FBI Custody” followed by links to his books about the Ripper and the Red Dragon, articles about his being discovered half-drowned in a fountain after being burned and mutilated, and an older article on Tattlecrime.com about his being vivisected while conscious by a former patient.

This guy had been through the meat grinder.

You started reading his first novel, _Hannibal the Cannibal._ His writing was as dry and pretentious as his speaking voice, the tone overly-technical, though as you got into the flow of it you began to see how it had held enough of the layman’s attention to ascend to best-sellerdom. There was a ridiculous humor buried in the stuffy formality of its grammar, like an old British comedy. Dry snark.

The day of the appointment, you greeted him at the door with a less-forced smile, did your best not to stare at his absurd suit-and-mask ensemble, and thought you were being very polite. You also wore a sexier outfit, just as a little fuck-you for calling you “drab.”

He was, at least, less prickly.

He invited you in, holding the door open and flinching a little as you passed through, stepping into into his personal bubble. The reaction reminded you not to try to shake his hand, though it felt rude. He was a little more familiar with you—he got your name wrong, but it was so obvious that it was on purpose that your lips turned up into a wry smile as you corrected him. You couldn’t see him smiling back as he pretended to remember, but you had a feeling he was pleased with himself.

Now that the shock of his appearance had worn off, you found he was well-articulated and charming in conversation. Gentlemanly. He might not be a total crazy person after all. You might, actually, not hate him.

But you had barely booted up your laptop and pulled up documents to review when he tossed you out, leaving you wondering what exactly the hell you had said this time to offend him. Roxy was going to get an earful when you went to get drinks after work.

* * *

You returned the next week, and the same thing happened. This time, you weren’t going to take it anymore.

“OK, what is going on? Are you not happy with my services?” You slammed the laptop shut. “Do you want someone else assigned to your case?” That last addition came out more fragile than you’d intended. It stung to imagine giving him up to a coworker, but if he hated your guts, then he hated you.

“You are fine,” he said tersely, pressing his fingertips to his porcelain brow.

“Then what? Are you just jerking me around for fun? You enjoy wasting my time?”

He said nothing, but his chin tilted indignantly into the air.

“Well, if you’re going to keep cutting these so short, I’m not going to keep driving all the way out here.”

“I pay for the full hour regardless. That makes your time more valuable, if anything.”

You half laughed as you stuffed your laptop and various papers back into your bag. “I’m sorry, but no. There is paperwork and research I have to do back at the office depending on your decisions that I can’t start because you haven’t made any. If you keep blowing these meetings off then you can find somebody else to help you.”

Brusque? Yes, but you were tired of being disrespected by some rich asshole.

You shot up from the desk, chair legs scraping on the hardwood, and marched out.

Before you could reach the door, Dr. Chilton stood and called after you, a plaintive, almost desperate quality to his voice. “I cannot manage these lengthy sessions. Sitting upright too long makes my head ache, and my grafts sting.”

You froze in the doorway.

“I have only been out of the hospital for a month,” he confessed, begging you not to leave. His tone turned sharp and defensive again. “Given your line of work, one would think you would be more sensitive to the needs of the ailing.”

You turned on your heel, hands flying to your mouth. “I-I’m so sorry… sir. I thought that you—of course I will do anything I can to accommodate your needs!” Your cheeks burned hot. Why did you just assume he was blowing you off and force him to explain a medical condition?! He was right, that was like, rule number one at your job. “I am so getting fired,” you whimpered to yourself.

The cavernous study seemed vast in the distance between you. You tried to divine if he was angry, or forgiving, but the mask betrayed nothing. He just stood, distant and observing.

“Is there anything that would make it easier for you? If you need to lie down while we talk, that’s fine. A lot of clients do. I see people in the hospital all the time.” You closed some of the distance until his foot took a half step back.

His head tipped considering your proposal. He was a proud man, that much you were certain about Frederick Chilton, and the idea of laying down would be admitting how sick he was. He would rather rudely cut an appointment short with no explanation than admit to needing extra support. (It wasn’t entirely your fault for not realizing—he literally masked his pain, which made him hard to read). But he also did not want you quit because he was difficult, and so he gestured you to follow him to a supple leather couch set into a reading nook. There was a glass coffee table in front of it on which to set your computer, and a few leather chairs that sank you into a reclined position no matter how you tried to sit at attention.

He stretched out on the couch with an embarrassed grumble, and lay there rubbing his temples for a few minutes before turning to you and instructing you to begin.

Much to her disappointment, you didn’t have a word of gossip for Roxy the next day.


	4. A Crush? Don't Be Ridiculous

Frederick Chilton was not attracted to you. Not really. It would have been pathetically desperate for him to be attracted to the first person to walk into his home since being discharged from the hospital. Even if you _were_ stunningly beautiful. Some annoying little financial planner he had expected to be a middle-aged man with a comb-over had no right to look the way you did.

That was the problem, though, was it not?

No woman like you would ever be interested in the disfigured shell of the man he used to be. They had never been particularly interested _before_ , although money, charm, and persistence could open many doors. He had been shot down more times than he had been accepted, and never managed to make anything last. And now he looked like a prop in a tacky horror film.

So, no. He was not attracted to you, because you would only disappoint him. Humiliate him. The sting of rejection would hurt far worse than the dull ache of never trying. It was pointless longing for something he could never have, except perhaps in the uncritical arms of someone taking payment. (Now there was a thought to consider.)

You disturbed him more than anything. The way you stared disdainfully, and grumbled under your breath. Clearly you did not like him from the very start.

He would not forget how quickly you assumed he was some sort of sexual deviant that first day. Although, after you left, he watched _Eyes Wide Shut_ , and had a cheek-darkening revelation as to why you had been so nervous (and a loin-twitching enumeration of _ideas._ ) Nevertheless, it was bold of you to assume.

He did not like you.

It mattered not that his heart skipped when you walked through his door. It was merely the agoraphobia he had developed. The shape of your lips lingered in his mind long after you had gone only because of the way you bit the lower one in concentration, drawing attention to them. As if you wanted him to notice. It meant nothing that he would catch your scent in his study the next day and feel a painful throb in his chest, acutely aware of how empty and silent the house was. He would never allow it to mean anything.

A rock dropped in his stomach when you turned to go. When you said he could find someone else to help him. He did not want someone else. 

Had his manners been that poor? He hated that he had made you so angry with him. If you left, you would not be coming back. He had to stop you, even if it meant admitting to his own humiliating weakness. But it was not because he could not stand the thought of never seeing you again. He needed to get this work done—with three brutal attempts on his life in as many years, he now considered hospitalization a hobby—and you were right. He was getting nowhere at the current pace.

So he laid down. He showed you his soft underbelly, and surprisingly, your grumbling stopped.

* * *

Over the next few sessions, you made tremendous progress. Your work was efficient and thorough, and your client felt that he was in good hands, which had you beaming with pride. Fussy clients were difficult, but when you managed to please them, you knew you were doing a great job.

Since Dr. Chilton actually admitted to his limitations, he had become much more tolerable. It wasn’t _you_ he was constantly grumpy at, he was just often in pain. Accommodating that allowed you to see more of his intelligent and funny sides. And made you more acutely aware of his loneliness.

Even the windows were closed and darkened with heavy curtains, suspicious of anybody peeping in. As far as you could tell, you were the only one he let inside. 

Despite his initial hesitance to be anywhere near you, as your meetings moved to the plush couch where he could recline and half-doze as you ran numbers by him, you grew closer out of necessity. It was impossible to easily share the laptop screen from your perch on a faraway chair, so he tolerated you sitting on the couch next to him. His expensive cologne was musky and spicy with hints of vanilla. It sent a shiver down your spine being allowed close enough to smell him.

* * *

The sun was high one late afternoon when you were so excited to tell him the good news you had received from the company’s lawyers about one of his proposed donations that you nearly slammed your car into the back of an SUV already parked in his driveway. You pulled up to the curb just in time to see a tall blonde woman leaving his house. Her face was lean and elven, smiling as she waved goodbye.

There was a strange tightness in your chest.

She was focused on the road and didn’t acknowledge you as she drove away. Somehow it made you angry that she ignored you. Who the hell was she?

Your footsteps were heavier than usual as you marched to Chilton’s door and knocked. It opened immediately; he was still standing in the entry. “Just on time, come in,” he greeted, sounding more cheerful than usual.

“That one of your high-end escorts?” you asked pointedly.

“Did she look like one to you?”

You thought about her. She was pretty. Prettier than you. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she was wearing a sporty blue polo shirt, scrub pants, and athletic sneakers. Your shoulders and palms lifted slowly into a shrug.

“Physical therapy,” he said flatly.

The tightness in your chest eased up a little. Your eyebrows waggled mischievously. “Oh is _that_ what they’re calling it these days?”

He shifted jerkily as every muscle in his body stiffened with indignity and he threw his chin into the air. Then all at once his posture melted, and a sly purr crept into his voice. “Are you jealous?”

You let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, _entirely._ ” Your eyes rolled. “Come on, I have good news about that university…”

Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you be jealous? It’s not like a physical therapist was going to poach your client. She wasn’t going to complete his paperwork or locate beneficiaries. They were completely different jobs.

Her work with him might go on for months, or years. Yours would be wrapped up in a week or two.

The tightness was back.


	5. Platonic Cuddling is Healthy and Normal

“Ooooh, got a hot date today?” Roxy wagged her eyebrows suggestively.

“What are you talking about?”

”You always look super cute on days you have a meeting with,” she silently mouthed _mask guy,_ and punctuated it with another brow pump for good measure.

“Oh my god,” you waved her away, “It is so not like that!”

She laughed impishly, slapping her desk. “You just turned so red! You’re totally into him!”

“I am not! Do not go telling everybody that!”

“What?” she stopped giggling and batted her lashes at you innocently. “So he’s a hermit. He’s super rich. Go for it babe, live the dream.”

Your eye twitched, and she started laughing hysterically again.

You were not attracted to Frederick Chilton. How could you be attracted to someone you’d never even seen? There was a headshot of the sleeve of his book, but it was impossible for your imagination to imbue that staged black-and-white photo with life, or apply it to the man in front of you. He was just a voice behind a mask.

 _That voice,_ though.

It was so soft, like the velvety chestnut fluff of a teddy bear. You felt it caress over your skin rather than heard it. And it was so carefully spoken, his grammar as unnaturally formal as the cover letter of your first resume out of college—nerves jittery at the prospect of being rejected and eager to show off your education.

Sometimes his vowels would stretch out like a cat, yawning and flexing their round toes, giving his words an air of drama. This happened especially when he was being smug or petty. You first noticed it while discussing his desire to have a hall named after him at the university his old rival worked at.

“He dumped me for a man he claimed was ‘going places.’ Now he _teaches,_ ” he said, stretching the word. “I would like him to give his little lectures in Chilton Hall. That should piss him off.”

You joined him in wringing your fingers with spiteful glee as you did your best to make it happen—you couldn’t imagine what idiot would dump him. Actually, scratch that, you could. The way he flaunted his money, his massive ego, his penchant for the dramatic… it was all rather douchey. But douchey in a way that charmed your pants off. Maybe because you saw that the puffed-up ego was just a defense mechanism, like a small lizard displaying a large frill around its neck to startle predators. Behind the bluster was a sweet, scared man you would never tire of spending time with. 

Not that you were attracted to him. 

_You weren’t_ , you groaned to yourself, head on your desk as the last hours of Friday ticked by. Getting someone’s name on a college building was not easy, or cheap, and did not exactly fall within the standard purview of end-of-life-planning. At all. You were exhausted.

“Karaoke tonight?” a message pinged on your screen from Roxy.

“Yessssss,” you eagerly typed back. “Get me out of here.”

Having plans only made the rest of the day crawl even slower. Your focus wandered. You imagined Dr. Chilton just-so-happening to be at the same bar and hearing you belt out a love ballad that would make him blush behind the mask.

But you knew you wouldn’t see him until your scheduled appointment next Tuesday.

How could you be attracted to someone who never left his house? If he walked into the bar dressed up like the _phantom of the goddamn opera_ , everyone would stare. Then again, like he said, people would stare no matter what he was wearing.

How bad could his injuries possibly be? You googled “severe burn” and quickly closed the browser. Bad. The answer was: pretty bad. Not as bad as they could be, though. He was fortunate to have functioning eyelids that were not fused together like candle wax.

You cleared your search history for the third time that day. Your manager did not need to think you were obsessed with a client. You were not obsessed. He was just… fascinating.

Karaoke was a distraction, but all the noise and crowds and drinks couldn’t get your mind off him. Four days felt like an eternity. He would be alone that whole time. _Unless he has more physical therapy_ , you thought angrily. Why were you angry? You weren’t! It didn’t help that Roxy kept teasing you, prying about eccentric mannerisms you regretted ever telling her about. 

She wasn’t wrong. He was weird. You couldn’t _like_ someone that weird. Mask aside, you would think he’d wear something more comfortable than a suit in his own home, but he obsessively needed to maintain his image. His status. He couldn’t be seen without a mask on, and the figurative mask included his expensive clothing.

Frankly, he looked ridiculous.

Though, anyone would have to admit, it was also rather sexy. Crisp pressed slacks, a stylish shirt and tie, and an audacious mask. Stretched out on a leather couch. It was like some millionaire anonymous sex thing, and it sent the occasional shiver down your spine toward… regions you would not discuss.

You shoved the thought down.

It wasn’t as though he felt the same way toward you anyway. He’d made his disinterest abundantly clear, and trying to seduce him would be callous to his recovery. Being burned had left him physically weak, frequently exhausted, and devastatingly shy. Sex was the last thing on his mind. It was a miracle that was willing to touch you at all.

He could touch you now. He had touched you. That was a new development.

It happened the session after he invited you to sit next to him so you could more easily share the laptop screen. As you sat beside each other on the couch, your legs grazed, as legs are wont to do in the natural course of sitting. He flinched away the first time, but the cushions were soft, tending to draw you in toward each other where your weight made a deep depression. The second time, he left it there, the warm steady pressure of your legs pressed together raising goosebumps that were thankfully hidden under long pants.

The next meeting, he leaned against you to see the screen. Your fingers brushed over the keyboard, and something awoke. A sleeping tiger.

He needed physical contact like he needed air to breathe. He attempted to be discreet about it, but you could tell he was always sitting as close to you as possible, touching you accidentally as you passed the laptop for him to sign a digital document.

He was so skittish. So careful with every touch, growing bolder little by little only as you reciprocated, sighing as his shoulder met yours, leaning into it. Then his hand, casually falling onto the couch cushion between you, next to where your hand rested. A pinkie extending. Yours extending back.

The couch was more comfortable than the office chairs, but sitting for any length of time was still challenging. One day, he seemed particularly weary and was starting to zone out.

“You can lay down if you need to. We can do it like this,” you indicated for him to put his legs over your lap, so you could both still see the computer. He did. Your hand rested on his knee, and he didn’t flinch or brush it away.

The filling out of forms and projecting of expenses turned more and more into cuddle sessions. You learned with a thrill of pleasure how solid his chest was, how broad were the arms always hidden under stiff sleeves.

There was nothing unprofessional about it. He got tired easily. It was perfectly natural that you should be comfortable relaxing together. It was easier for both of you.

There was nothing unprofessional about it.

It wasn’t as though he liked you. He was just a little touch-starved, and some friendly cuddling was healthy. You didn’t like him either. Maybe your heart raced a little when he was near, but who wouldn’t be nervous around a weird mask-guy? And if you looked forward to your meetings all week, you were just attached to him as a client.

You _were_ attached to him as a client.

The reason you could do your job, so steeped in death, and still sleep at night was because you didn’t bond with people easily. You weren’t cold—you were kind to clients, sympathized with them, and wanted to help them—but you didn’t think about them after clocking out. This was different.

As your last appointment rapidly approached, you were never in your life more certain of how much you were going to miss somebody.


	6. Voyeurism/Mask Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Chilton proposes hiring you for a different service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @thatesqcrush's Kinktober Kink Bingo challenge!

The sturdy rectangular gray headboard supported your weight, along with a mountain of soft eider-down pillows, as you sat back against it. One hand typed financial figures into a laptop. The other gently ran its fingers through the thick hair of the head resting in your lap.

This had all started as a fairly standard work arrangement.

Frederick Chilton had been through several near-death experiences, and had reached out to your agency to ensure his affairs were in order. You handled end-of-life arrangements: advanced directives, living wills, estate planning, funerals—your business was the one-stop-shop for a worry-free death.

He was only recently out of the hospital since being severely burned over ninety percent of his body, and was shy about it. He was also wealthy enough to cloister himself away from the world. And so you had been visiting him at his home for the past few weeks to conduct business.

Your fingers stopped their lazy crawl through his hair, and he let out a soft whine. Clearing your throat, you pointed out something on the screen that required his attention, and he pushed himself off your lap with a disappointed groan. Once he managed to get into a sufficiently upright sitting position against the headboard, he settled back into you, leaning against your shoulder. He idly laid his hand on your leg, and you covered it with your own, stroking the scarred skin with your thumb.

Because he was so frequently exhausted, you had gotten into the habit of… well, cuddling. Platonically. Professionally. Eventually you grew so comfortable together that you started working from his bed, where he could fall asleep if he needed and not have to drag himself from the study (a short but insurmountable distance when one is in great pain and too tired to even sit up).

It felt nice to be so close with someone, even if you were never allowed to see his face.

As relaxed as you had grown together, he was always covered completely from head to toe. The only indication to the extent of his burns was the scarring that peeked underneath the white chin of his mask, covered his throat, dipped below the collar of his dress shirt, and covered his hands like a gnarled glove.

You closed down your computer after he had finished reviewing and signing all of the necessary digital forms you needed for that day.

Not just for that day, in fact. Those were the last ones. That was it. His end-of-life planning was complete. You could only hope he wouldn’t need it for a long time. The thought of him in a hospital on life support sent an uncontrollable pang through your heart.

Extricating yourself from his clinging limbs, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and packed the laptop in a messenger bag. His hand chased after you, gingerly grasping your hand. A soft, familiar gesture, silently pleading you to stay.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Chilton.” You gave a coy smile. “Sorry. _Doctor._ ”

His pretty eyes narrowed inside the mask, and his shoulders heaved with a short breath of laughter. He had corrected you so harshly the first day that you were sure he was going to cancel your services then and there. He had only been kind to you since. Particular, but kind. “It’s a shame this is our last meeting,” you sighed, and you meant it.

You were going to miss him. He was an unusual client, and you enjoyed getting to know him.

“It does not have to be the last,” he blurted, desperation tinging his muffled voice. “I could continue paying for your time.”

You cocked your head. “Everything is set up. The only thing we’re waiting on is confirmation from the—”

“I could pay you for… other services.” His thumb brushed sensuously over your wrist.

Oh. _Oh._

Your eyes widened and you felt a shameful twitch between your thighs. You tried to hold your composure but your cheeks were burning and your face revealed every sinful thought whirling through your mind.

“I do not mean anything untoward,” he said quickly. “Nothing you do not wish to do. I enjoy your company and would like to keep it, that is all.”

 _Nothing untoward?_ You deflated. Something untoward happening had been a thought you’d been pushing down into a box with a tight lid for weeks now, and the moment he said that—the millisecond you thought he might want you that way—the lid sprang off like a pressurized cannon, and it would take ages to gather up all the licentious images scattered in your mind and contain them again. But he just wanted company. Any company. Even some random accountant.

A new wave of sympathy welled up in your chest. “You really don’t have anybody, do you?”

He let go your wrist quite suddenly to cross his arms over his chest, and his placid mask turned away sharply. Underneath the expressionless porcelain, you had a feeling the prickly psychiatrist was anything but calm.

“You believe I am lonely?” he scoffed. “My last book topped the New York Times Best Seller list. If I wish for company I can have it. I was merely being sentimental, as I have grown accustomed to you and find you tolerable. It seemed simpler than finding somebody new if we continued with… another arrangement.”

The shyness with which he said arrangement, pronouncing it with stretched syllables to give it weight, made you certain he _did_ intend something untoward until he misread your look of surprise as rejection.

What you should have said was there was no need to pay you to spend time with him—that you were happy enough to do that on your own. That you found it surprising how a man so charming and cuddly could believe he needed to pay for _anyone’s_ company. But the idea of being paid for “services” titillated you, sending an electric jolt straight to your core.

So instead you said, “All right.”

The mask swung back to face you. “All right?”

“What kind of arrangement do you have in mind?” you purred, crawling back onto the bed toward him.

He swallowed sharply. The strip of exposed neck beneath the mask’s chin was red and had the texture of kneaded bread dough, but the bob of his Adam’s apple was pronounced enough for you to see his undisguised arousal.

Since you had been sitting close to each other near the edge of the bed, you were almost immediately on top of him, smoothing the silky fabric of his shirt down his chest. He smelled of spices and a hint of something clean and floral. “Well?” you pouted expectantly. His muscles were stiff as rocks. All you could see through the mask were two pale eyes the color of autumn moss staring in panic from a white sea of sclera.

“I didn’t necessarily mean… i-if you don’t want to…” he stammered, words losing their controlled diction. Apparently he had not anticipated you agreeing so readily, but a stirring in the front of his slacks suggested this was precisely the outcome he had hoped for. You took a chance and ran your palm over the growing bulge, and were rewarded with a gasp, his fingers clenching the sheets. “Yes, that—that is wonderful. Keep going,” he croaked.

He shifted, opening his legs to give you better access, and you turned so your thigh rested over his, skirt riding up, as you rubbed him through his pants. His hands wandered over your hips and back, muscular arms pulling you in closer. Seeking more contact, you buried your face against the kneaded skin his neck where you could feel warm puffs of breath escaping from the sides of the mask. You wondered if he would take it off, now that you were being intimate. Part of you hoped he wouldn’t. The anonymity added to the thrill, to the wrongness of what you were doing. You agreed to let a man you’d never even seen have his way with you for money.

His breath grew ragged as his cock hardened, lengthening under your palm. His hands withdrew from their exploration of your body to clumsily unbutton his slacks, which were tenting under the strain of his growing erection. It sprang free and he stroked himself a few times, but your hand was right there to take over the job. His muscles tensed, prepared to flinch away when you released him in disgust, but you bit your lip, lids fluttering closed as you tried and failed to hold in a lewd noise of pleasure.

He stared at you like you were the most incredible thing he had ever seen. Then he let out a breathy moan, head falling back against the headboard. “You are… quite eager,” he teased.

“I’ve been waiting a long time.”

He wondered if that was true, or if it was just something you said, but he let himself be excited by it anyway, pretending you wanted him.

His cock felt incredible in your hand—heavy, throbbingly hot, like holding a heartbeat, and textured with a mesh of grafts and thin, stiff ridges of surgical scars zigzagging down the shaft to allow it to expand to its full, exquisite length. You wondered if you were the first person he’d been with since his burn, and a weight of importance settled onto your shoulders.

“Am I doing all right?” you whispered, trying to gauge his reaction from an unforthcoming mask. “Tell me what you want.”

“Take off all of your clothing,” he said thickly. “All of it.”

You tugged at your shirt, in a hurry to obey, but he stopped you, and had you get up and stand beside the bed where he could see all of you.

He wanted to watch.

The cold white mask was unreadable, even Chilton’s green eyes disappearing into the shadows, as you began unbuttoning your blouse.

“The skirt first,” he instructed. Your heart skipped a beat. Self-consciously, fingers trembling at the clasp, you zipped down the skirt, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle around your ankles. You looked to him for approval.

His cock was in his hand and he was stroking himself slowly as he called out the next article of clothing for you to remove. It made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and your cunt drip with anticipation. A wealthy eccentric who had essentially _bought_ you was sitting there in control while you were exposed and vulnerable, not showing any emotion but clearly getting off to you.

Trembling breath shuddered in his throat, strained. As he allowed you to undo your blouse, button by button, his pace built urgency, hand beating up and down in his lap. You could imagine how his face looked beneath that calm mask—how clouded with lust, helpless and falling apart.

God, you wanted to see him. But not knowing was such a turn-on.

At last he guided you to slip off your panties, and you stood naked before him. He stopped stroking himself.

“Come here,” he beckoned with his finger.

You climbed onto the bed, skin prickling with goosebumps, and settled yourself next to him in a familiar cuddling position. His arm easily snaked around your back, supporting and drawing you closer.

“How are you doing?” he asked, ducking his mask close to whisper like it was a secret.

“Nervous,” you admitted, whispering back.

His fingers circled your wrist and pressed into the soft underside. “Your pulse is racing,” he said as if you were a patient. “We can stop.”

The needy whine in your throat cleared up any uncertainty before you could form words. “I don’t want to stop. If you need to stop, we can. But I…” your eyes drifted unconsciously to his cock, thick and covered in distinctive surgical details, and you sucked your lower lip between your teeth. You wondered how he would feel sliding into your entrance.

Pushing your shoulders steadily, but gently, he began by having you lie on your back on top of the blankets, exposed for him. Then he asked you to spread your legs so he could kneel between them. You thought he was going to fuck you, but he just hovered above you, watching.

He had taken off his suit jacket before getting into bed, but the end of his blue-patterned tie dangled dangerously above his stiff cock, which emerged from the opening in his dark slacks. He was very well dressed, only revealing what little flesh was necessary. He loosened the knot around his neck, and pulled it off, tossing it haphazardly aside.

Soft green eyes bored into you from their protected porcelain fortress, heating your skin like a fire as they took in the curves and dips and perfect imperfections of your body.

Finally he moved.

Bracing himself on one arm, he leaned above you, hand roving intimately over the same curves of your body his eyes had just navigated. You were so worked up already, your back arched and you moaned the moment he made contact with your skin. You were ready, writhing and straining for him to fuck you, but he only touched you.

He didn’t rush for the obvious areas you expected, but took his time. Instead of going directly for your tits, he caressed the length of your collarbone delicately with just his thumb and two fingers. Then he dipped lower, and you sucked an expectant breath, but he drew a line down your sternum, between your breasts, and splayed his scarred fingers out over the soft of your belly.

You were so ready to explode from anticipation, even the slightest graze of his fingertips sent sparks tickling across your skin wherever they went. You thought about him touching himself while he watched you strip.

It was so hard to know what he was thinking. The mask removed facial expression from the equation, and when he went silent for so long like this, you trembled with how blindfolded you felt, just focusing on his touch.

He traced one finger delicately down your arm, ghosting just over the skin in a wandering, unhurried path that raised a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

The pink head of his cock glistened with precum, waiting just as anxiously as you to bury itself inside you. You wanted to take control, grasp it, and plunge him between your thighs, but you didn’t want to spook him. If this was the first time he was intimate with someone since being scarred, it was a big step. You didn’t mind him taking his time. You were hypnotized by his delicate touches, every inch of your skin vibrating like the air during a lightning storm.

Leaning down closer, he curled his fingers around your neck. You gasped as the throbbing weight of his erection pressed into your stomach—but he was only studying your face. Still, he was much closer now, the heat of his body inches from yours, and being able to feel his cock was almost too much. You reached up to wrap your arm around his back, pulling him even harder against you.

God you were beautiful. And sweet, and intelligent. He wanted to keep you. Maybe it was just how tender he was from his latest life-altering trauma, but he had never wanted anything quite as much as he wanted you.

Your skin was warm and smooth, so unlike his, but you did not mind—or you were skilled at concealing your distaste. He observed with pleasure how you shuddered and sighed and leaned into his touch. How you gasped and moaned and _wanted_ him. It was just for the money, of course. He knew that. Wealth could buy all kinds of love from the sort of person with the proper priorities—though he had not expected you to be one of them. It was a desperate final effort to make you stay.

He trailed his fingertips along your jaw, over your cheek. You whined as his fingers brushed across your lips, and you parted them, tasting a salty pad with the tip of your tongue. You felt his cock jerk against your stomach. So you licked him again, satisfied to achieve the same reaction, as well as pull a low whimper from deep in the back of his throat. His fingers curled around your chin, thumb still teasing the tender inner flesh of your lower lip, letting your tongue draw him in deeper, pinching the manicured digit between your teeth, and finally sucking on it, pretending it was his exquisite cock in your mouth.

It drove him crazy. With every swirl of your tongue, his cock twitched and grew harder, and a strangled sob would force its way shaking out of him. The contrast between the impassive mask and the lustful noises muffled within its porcelain shell sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core, and you rocked your hips against his pant leg. He lowered himself to your ear and nuzzled your neck. His noises were even louder, intensifying your greed for him. Your hand snaked its way up to the back of his head, fingers gripping his hair, and tugged his head down.

He stiffened, every muscle going rigid. Grunting disapprovingly, he knocked your hand away, but to your gasping delight, continued to drag the mask down your body.

He felt sick deceiving you. No matter how much money he had to offer, you would never agree to be with him if you knew what was under the mask. He couldn’t risk you tugging at it. It was terrifying and confusing enough that you were touching him at all—the incredible, gorgeous way your body moved beneath him—and if you knew, you would be gone. It would all go away. This dream would end as a nightmare. He felt awful, but unbridled lust overwhelmed every bit of logic and tenuous scrap of decency he had. He deserved something good, just this once. He was going to make you scream for him in pleasure, not horror.

Hard, expressionless porcelain traveled down your soft skin, its cold lips following the swell of your breast. It brushed your nipple, and you arched your back, moaning around the thumb in your mouth. Your body started shaking with so many sensations—the cold smooth porcelain rolling your hardening peak under its sculpted ridges, his cock pressing into you, and his warm, rough, salty thumb, dripping with saliva as you took out your frustrations on it, swirling your tongue over the pad, bobbing your head, hoping to drive him mad enough to fuck you already.

His movements were jerkier and less patient, you noticed—he was falling apart, too.

He continued moving lower, his thumb escaping your mouth with a wet pop and trailing down your chin as the mask’s pointed nose traced a ticklish path over your stomach, and down, between your thighs. The mask’s nose just barely grazed your clit, but you were so ready for release it made you whimper loudly and grab at his hair, almost coming just from one touch. You wanted to push his head between your legs and let you grind your swollen clit against that nose until you broke, but he brushed your hand off again and you relented. You had an unspoken language built on weeks of cuddling—He was sensitive about certain things. He set a boundary and you knew not to push it.

Though he didn’t let you ride his mask, he stayed between your legs. He pressed the broad flat of his palms against your outer thighs as he deeply breathed in your scent, and you shuddered at the lewd act. He let out the breath with a long, intoxicated sigh.

“P-please,” you whimpered, knowing just how pathetic you sounded. “Please fuck me.” Every muscle in your body was on fire from this agonizingly slow foreplay, straining for some kind of release. A satisfied chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

“So impatient,” he teased, voice low and soft. “I want to savor every second. Every inch of you.”

You swallowed hungrily.

* * *

Content that he had explored the rest your body, he finally dipped his hand between your legs. Slippery with saliva, the pad of his thumb rubbed slow, teasing, wet circles on your clit.

“Oh god, _fuck!_ ” you gasped with relief the moment he made contact with the aching bud of flesh that had been waiting so long for this.

“Do you like that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You moaned lewdly, nodding, as your hips rocked involuntarily against his thumb.

He dragged his fingers through your folds, finding your opening, and dipped one inside. He hummed to find you already drenched, your walls gripping around his finger greedily. He removed his hand and held it up, rubbing your slickness between his fingers. “Look how wet you are for me,” he said, voice husky with desire and pride. You whimpered at the loss of contact.

“Keep going,” you begged, chin trembling.

He slipped in two long fingers this time, making you cry out and grip the bed sheets at the unexpected stretch.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he whispered, lust barely contained.

“Yes— _yes,_ oh fuck—” a shuddering breath broke from your chest as his fingers curled deeper inside “—Please. Please fuck me.”

“Come for me first.”

You looked up at the mask, but it was unflinching, leaving no recourse but to accept its challenge.

“Faster,” you said, writhing your hips to set a harder tempo, racing toward your climax, and his thumb followed suit. The electric charge building under his touch grew fiercer, licking out warm tendrils of static through your lower back, arcing up each vertebrae. “Good,” your breath shivered. “Just like that.” You grabbed his hand as you bucked your hips to meet him. “Deeper,” you growled, sinking his fingers deeper inside, your walls clenching around them as your pleasure grew white-hot. He eagerly followed your instruction, and went further, curling his fingers to rub against your sweet spot, making your hips stutter as you moaned out— _“Doctor!”_

The mask remained frustratingly, tantalizingly cool and uncaring.

You were already so hot from him studying your body like a lab specimen, it didn’t take much to bring you close to the edge now that he was filling you with those long, sexy fingers, pumping them into you while his diligent thumb kept pressure on your clit. Every muscle in your body burned with tension as you arched up against him, feeling the electricity under your skin, crackling through the air.

You locked eyes on the mask, placid and calm as it observed you. Its breathing was coming out shallow and fast, and the hand that wasn’t knuckles-deep inside you stroked his cock as he watched you falling apart beneath him. As you took in that hauntingly calm face, the air seemed to part, holding still with unimaginable tension. Then it snapped back together all at once like a roaring crack of thunder that shook your body in devastating waves. A cry ripped from your throat, back arching until your hips were off the mattress, your walls clenching around him as his fingers continued to pump through each jolt of your body. He kept working you through the peak of your climax, and kept going, adding more pressure until it was too much, almost painful, and you yelped and writhed beneath his unrelenting thumb.

“Stop! S-stop, it’s too much!” you whimpered, and finally he stopped.

This wasn't the same shy, skittish man you'd known for the past few weeks. There was a confidence, a wolfishness coming to the surface that you were excited to have drawn out. After all the nervous testing the waters, you'd told him to jump in—and he was. He had always followed your lead on how comfortable you were with touching him, cuddling. Now he was taking control, and you wanted him to fuck your brains out and call you a filthy slut for it.

“I am going to fuck you now,” he panted.

Too spent to form words, you nodded drunkenly, and pulled him down on top of you, kissing his cold, porcelain lips. The cute surprised noise he made sent an aftershock shivering through you.

He lined up with your still-twitching entrance, and pressed inside so slowly, so carefully, as if expecting that you (or he) might change your mind at any moment. Inch by inch he parted you, feeling each incremental stretch, until his balls pressed snug against your pussylips and you could be filled no further. He was still for a moment, just panting, giving you time to adjust. He was so gentle.

He was always so gentle.

“I’ve never been paid for sex before,” you said, the strange idea that _that was what you were doing_ washing over you with a devious smile. And it was not the least of what was strange about this situation.

“Does it excite you?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” he purred. His hips began thrusting into you hard and fast, practically knocking the air from you. He fucked you with a desperation of a dying man in a desert searching for a cool glass of water. He couldn’t choke back the frantic grunts and helpless throaty moans warbling in his throat. He was starving, and you were food.

You angled your hips up to meet his thrusts, surprised but enthralled by this new unrestrained side of Frederick Chilton. You wrapped your legs around his back, pulling him into you. The mask put so much distance between you, you wanted to feel closer. More of his body weight sank against you, and you reveled in the comfort of his solid presence pushing you down. God, his body was perfect. You ran your hands down his back and squeezed his ass, feeling the twitch of his muscles with each powerful stroke.

“Oh god... fuck me hard,” you moaned against his neck.

He made a noise that wasn’t quite words—he couldn’t manage words—in acknowledgment, and his next thrust made you cry out. He turned his head and kissed you with his mask lips. You kissed him back with a passion he hadn’t expected, gasping in surprise and pleasure as you pretended it was his real face, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in deeper. Half-hidden in the dark holes of the mask, his eyes were closed, and you wondered if he was pretending he was kissing your lips, too.

Fuck, between being pounded into the mattress and those muffled perverse sounds he was making, you were going to come again. You crossed your legs higher up his back, adding friction to your sweet spot, sucking and nipping at the only exposed skin he allowed you access to—his neck. You moaned into it, knowing he would be covered in bruises when you were done.

The rhythm of his hips stuttered, and his arms, braced to either side of your shoulders, crushed inward on you. You could tell he was close to coming. You wondered what he looked like in his climax, what fervid expression he wore. Was his jaw slack, lids heavy with lust? Or was his brow scrunched in concentration, a snarl of effort curling his lips?

The question burned in your gut, turning you on but all the while driving you crazy. You wanted to know, but you didn’t want to know. Curiosity stabbed you, but the not knowing was the exciting part.

What if he was ugly? Or boring? What if you saw his face, and wished you go back to the time he was only a beautifully soft voice and heartbreakingly gentle touch? What if you hated what you saw, and you broke his heart?

You didn’t want to break his heart.

His scarred cock felt amazing as it struck you deeper, stuffing and splitting you open. The texture of it filled you with all new sensations as he worked you hard, making you cry out and bite down on his neck at a particularly reckless thrust. You kissed and licked the bite apologetically.

He bowed his head down into the crook of your neck as he chased his climax, fucking you like he would never get another chance, and something happened.

The edge of it caught, or the weight he put on it at a wrong angle made the whole mask shift, the fastening loosened. You don’t know why, but you reached up. To help? But instead—you didn’t mean to—when his head jerked up, your hand pulled down, and it came off.


	7. Praise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @thatesqcrush’s kinktober challenge kink bingo, filling the Praise square

It happened so fast, like getting caught in a fight, or an explosion going off—one moment everything is fine, the next your adrenaline is making every blur of frantic memory not quite stick, only to come back frame by jumbled frame later.

The mask pulled off, and it was gone.

And there he was, eyes wide with horror, set in sockets that were pink and gnarled with burn scars. The burns scoured over every surface, leaving his entire head bare. Everything froze. You didn’t breathe. But your senses were drawn to a focal point on his face, made focal by its prominent unnaturalness. Lips. He had no lips, leaving his front teeth bared like a smiling skull. You barely registered it before time unfroze and in a flash of movement he had torn out of you, fleeing, roaring swears and covering his face with his hands.

 _“Damn you!”_ he shouted. “Why did you do that? Is this what you wanted to see?”

“I-I’m sorry. It was an accident,” you tried to explain, but he was too frantic to hear. How had it happened? It must have been all of the movement, physical exertion, the sweat, you tugging at his hair. The hair. It was part of the whole ensemble and pulled off with the mask.

He scurried to the far corner of the bed, hitting the headboard and pressing himself against it as far as he could go, then curling inward on himself with a final snarled command, _“GET OUT!”_

* * *

Chilton’s vision narrowed to a pinprick, a single point of light at the end of a suffocating tunnel that pushed in on him from all sides. No, no no. His head buzzed like a rubber band pulled too tight. Over. All over. He could barely hear anything outside of himself, anything but the white-hot _tick-tick-tick-tick_ of his racing heart in his ears. No. _Fuck._

Something touched his hand, and he jerked back reflexively.

Everything was all over. He was ruined. The something spoke softly in words he could not make out. It crowded him against the edge of the bed, but its presence was not unwelcome. It was speaking calmly. Calming. His breathing slowed just slightly as he tried to listen. It touched his hand again and stayed, and the words began to resolve themselves into a language.

“Are you okay?” you said. “What’s the matter?”

He nearly shrieked. What a ludicrous thing to say. What was the matter?! Could you not see? Did you not have _eyes_ in that stupid, beautiful, perfect head of yours? Although he found, as he tried to put into words an answer—one sufficiently scathing of your breathtaking ignorance—he struggled to find one that justified his being huddled, shaking in a corner like a child. _You can see my face, that’s what’s the matter. I am an accomplished psychiatric doctor, a best-selling author, as well as a competent and rational adult, and I cannot handle being looked at, because…_ Saying it out loud made the whole thing sound foolish.

He felt the weight of your hand holding his, and realized you were still there. You had not run away.

“Nothing,” he answered.

The tight, white-hot racing in his chest slowed to a tense, brisk pounding.

Perhaps you had not gotten a good enough look at him yet to be disgusted. He chanced a timid glance up. You were looking at him. So close. Nothing was hidden, every ugly thing on display. Your brow was knit with worry, your eyes soft. Perhaps the reaction would be delayed. Or you had a strong stomach, and compassion.

Yes, you were compassionate. You would never run from him screaming, knowing how much that would hurt him. But it was over. His chance to relieve his carnal urges with you was lost forever. Soon the realization would dawn upon you that you had bedded so repulsive a creature, and you would slowly come to hate him.

But for now, at least, you were still there. He squeezed your hand.

* * *

You were stunned, more by the intensity of his reaction than by his appearance. The sizable chunk of face he was missing was shocking, but you already knew he had suffered severe burns, and you had suspected by his speech that his mouth had been affected. His baldness was the greater revelation—anything could have been under the mask, but his soft brown hair was a piece of him you _thought_ you knew.

But that only made you sad you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did. What hurt was that he wanted you to leave.

You would have preferred if he kept fucking you as if nothing had changed. There was an empty ache between your legs that longed to filled by his perfect cock, and you already missed the comforting weight of him pushing down on you.

He was furious at you, and you didn’t know if he could forgive you. It was almost your worst nightmare of how this relationship could have ended. Almost.

Seeing his face, you could say with confidence that he was not boring. Or ugly. He might break your heart, but you were not going to break his. He was—god, he was gorgeous. You had a feeling he was very _conventionally_ pretty before the fire, because his features were all refined and attractive, covered in a patina of artistic, textural scarring and a few intense, story-telling defects. He was a thing of transcendent beauty. An ancient marble sculpture recovered from the sea floor.

He was someone who had been through the worst pain imaginable, and survived. 

* * *

“Can I stay?”

He nodded. You inched closer.

“Is it alright if I touch you?”

He rubbed your fingers with his thumb, and exhaled his wry amusement. What a delicate question from someone he was moments ago fucking roughly into his bed. Not to mention you were technically already touching him, but he was not going to quibble at this moment.

“As it pleases you.”

You climbed onto his lap, and he pulled you close, nesting his face between your shoulder and neck. His heart welled up at your tenderness, and he gripped you tighter in his arms. Mirroring his soft touches from earlier, you began to ghost your hands over his body, smoothing down his arms, rubbing circles across his back.

You caressed the back of his head, the skin burnished smooth in places, and textured like mesh in others. A few patches of hair grew in the least damaged areas. He shivered, a full body quake running all the way up his spine, and let out a quiet breathy moan at your fingers running along his scalp. He enjoyed you running your fingers through his hair—the very well-made, very expensive wig that almost perfectly replicated what his _used_ to look like before every follicle was destroyed—but it was like holding hands while wearing gloves. The sensation of your fingertips on his actual skin was almost overwhelming.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked. His shoulders stiffened. Turning your head, you nuzzled the reconstructed shell of flesh that was once an ear, a silent promise to be gentle. His cock twitched under your straddling legs and you could feel him reconsider.

“Slowly,” he warned, exhaling a fragile breath.

You pressed your lips to his cheek, teasing the side of his face but venturing no closer to his abused mouth until he sighed contently under your chaste attentions, and you felt him relax. Then you gradually kissed your way inward, delicately sucking his warm skin and flitting your tongue between your teeth to taste him. You glanced up to his eyes from time to time, checking that he was not quietly sinking back into a panic, although the heat of his cock hardening under you seemed a positive indication.

Finally you reached the place where his cheek stopped, and a flap of skin stretched over bared teeth. The edge of it was taut, always trying, but never able, to close—to become lips. You kissed it, and felt it twitch, the confused muscles firing in different directions.

“You know…” he whispered, voice shaking with an attempt at humor, “The last person this close to my lips bit them off.”

“Oh!” A jolt of sorrow and horror hit you in the chest. You didn’t know all of the details, only that a famous serial killer had attacked him. “I-I’m sorry,” you whispered back. Do you want me to stop? Is this going to be… you know… traumatic?”

“We shall find out,” he said dismissively, a suggestive growl lingering in his throat illuminating where his priorities were.

His fingers curled into your hair, erection twitching as you pressed your lips against his teeth. You shifted your position over his lap so you were sitting on his cock, letting the shaft glide through your wetness every time you moved. He grabbed your hips, gripping them so hard you would find ten little fingertip-shaped bruises the next morning and held them in place as he began to rock. That electric-hot pleasure began to build in your gut again. You moaned against him, tongue gliding over the polished enamel of his teeth, tasting the quivering edges of not-lips. You licked a gentle circuit around the sensitive torn flesh, tracing its circumference as he shuddered and jerked his hips in response.

His throat rumbled with pleasure, half groan, half animalistic growl, as he finally broke away from the kiss to nibble his way down your jaw. His tongue swirled a tiny circle over your pulse point before his mouth left your skin, and he buried his face, panting, into your neck.

His chest heaved wildly, his breath shaky with emotion as he gripped onto you for dear life. He never imagined being touched like that so unflinchingly, and he wanted you so bad.

“Wow,” you breathed. You held him close, nuzzling against his head. “That felt so good.”

He drew in a sharp breath at your praise, and his cock jolted sinfully against your cunt.

“You’re going to make me cum again doing that,” you moaned, starting to grind on him. “Do you want to fuck me?”

For the first time since being unmasked, he pulled back far enough to watch your face. He reached two fingers between where your legs were parted over his lap and rubbed your clit, savoring how you writhed in response and the sound of your arousal. You always bit your lower lip as if to hold in your noises, but then moaned loudly anyway, he noticed. He enjoyed that. He loved making you moan.

“Do you still want to?” he asked, moving his fingers up and down in your wetness tormentingly slow. His cautious green eyes watched your reaction carefully. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

You whimpered. “Yes. God, yes.”

He gave a sort of devious, lipless, eyebrowless smirk, eyes flashing. Somehow it was both arrogant and vulnerable at the same time as he reached under to guide himself in, moaning _“Oh, god”_ as you sank down onto him.

He swallowed, watching you writhe and bite your lip as you got used to him stretching you from a new angle. “Does that feel good?”

You hummed, deep and throaty. “You feel incredible. Do you know how amazing your cock feels?” He shivered with delight when you praised him, and you decided to take full advantage of that as you began rolling your hips. “All those scars, the ripples and ridges of it...” you grunted with effort, fingernails digging into his shoulders for support as you rode him like a pornstar, “I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s so good. You drive me wild, Doctor Chilton.”

He might have felt a prick of shame at your pointing out of his mutilated penis, however complimentary you intended it—a sting of bruised ego that would have sent him retreating into himself in a prideful huff—if he wasn’t so dizzy with the rocking of your voluptuous hips. His head was buzzing with flattery, lost in being buried in you, and drunk on the ruffles of your concentrated breathing. He gripped your hips again, rolling the meat of your gorgeous ass in his palm as he helped you move.

The burning heat in your core was almost too much to bear as he massaged your walls, so you let more of your weight fall forward, your head bowing against the headboard over Chilton’s shoulder. He turned to capture your lips, one of his hands coming off your hip and curling over the nape of your neck. You gasped, pleased by his boldness. Parting your lips wide, you consumed the permanent grimace of his mouth and found it not much different than any fiercely passionate kiss—a clashing of teeth and tongues and hot breath. His tongue darted out to play with yours, the probing muscles swirling around each other, wrestling for control, before he plunged into your mouth, teasing the inner flesh and running along the pointed edges of your teeth.

He was drooling but didn’t even care anymore. Your beautiful face was getting fucked up, too, your perfect lips wet and swollen—he gently nipped at the lower one then licked over it soothingly—and you kept crying out between breaths how wonderful he felt. How good his cock made you feel.

 _“I love that,”_ you moaned, nearly saying _you_ by accident, and he whimpered in response. God, the noises he made drove you crazy. Your eyes fluttered closed as the friction between you rubbed your clit, igniting every nerve. “Keep going… just like that.” You were making a puddle on his lap with how wet you were, ruining the dress pants he refused to take off.

Your hips kept rolling, taking his cock so well that all he could do was admire you. And keep thrilling you with his ruined mouth any way that it still could.

You closed your lips around his naughty tongue and sucked on it, flicking your own tongue over his. His hips bucked up into you more powerfully, hitting wonderfully deeper. One of his hands still gripped you firmly, deepening every sharp thrust, and the other slipped between you to rub your burning clit with his thumb.

“L-lower,” you whimpered. He moved lower and your lower body lit on fire as he hit just the right spot, sparks flying under the skin, coiling into a tension that built, and built at unbelievable speed. You moaned his name loudly, throwing your head back. “Yes—there, that’s it. That’s perfect. I’m gonna—”

He dipped forward and nipped your exposed throat, fluttering the point of his tongue across your warm pulse point as you rocked in his arms, shaking and crying out as you exploded over the precipice and came undone a second time. Your walls spasmed and contracted around his glorious cock, gripping every exquisite detail.

The sight of you falling apart for him and the sensation of your cunt rippling around his cock drove him to the edge, and when you let your sweaty forehead fall against his, looked at him with a fire in your eyes, and whispered urgently, _“Be good and cum inside me,”_ it pushed him over. The rhythm of his hips stuttered as they bucked into you with one powerful stroke that lifted you off the bed, and then another, softer, and then he grew still but hips kept tremoring as he unloaded wave after wave of an unthinkable amount of seed, milking every last pent-up drop until it ran, hot, down your leg. Those pants were soaked and destroyed. But that was a problem for later.


	8. Cockwarming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @thatesqcrush’s Kinktober kink bingo - cockwarming

He collapsed on top of you, rolling you onto your back without removing the sweet, filling pressure of his still-hard erection from your warmth. He nuzzled his face against yours with blatant neediness until you kissed him, then he sighed happily, and let his whole body go limp on top of you.

“That was so good,” you said, out of breath, chaffed, mussed, and glowing with euphoria.

He let out a muffled hum of agreement into the mattress, which you more felt vibrating than heard.

Minutes passed in peaceful, comfortable silence. You half dozed with exhaustion, softly caressing the solid, reassuring body weighing down on you, sweat slowly saturating through his once-pristine dress shirt. His cock felt so nice, still nestled inside you as it gradually softened. You stroked his sweaty back, unsure if he had fallen asleep.

“ _Mmm._ Doctor Chilton, this is nice,” you murmured dreamily.

“I believe, at this juncture, it would be appropriate to call me Frederick.”

The familiarity made your heart skip unexpectedly. “Frederick,” you said, trying it out. It tasted good rolling over your tongue, so you said it again. “ _Frederick._ I like that. It’s a good name.”

He lifted his head to watch your perfect lips forming the shape of his name. “It is Germanic in origin...” he said, then paused, thinking better of it before launching into a boring onomastics lesson you surely had no interest in hearing. Why could he not think of anything more… romantic?

“It’s cute. It sounds regal… but also very cuddly,” you warmly opined. “Like a lord or a duke, or a teddy bear. _Sir Teddy Bear_. Frederick.”

He had nothing to say to that (although the temptation to describe the name’s royal history grew stronger), so he buried his face further into your neck.

An analog clock ticked atop a dresser. Frederick breathed in and out. Otherwise, his bedroom was soundproof enough that you were immersed in silence. You enjoyed the closeness of his body. You wished you had more bare skin to touch, but were content to settle for his neck and his head for now. And because you were completely naked, every caress of his fingers was skin on skin.

He enjoyed your naked body, not just because it aroused him sexually. He felt at ease. It seemed a fair trade off for the parts of him you had gotten to see—parts he was firmly dedicated to hiding until they could be corrected.

A thread of fear pulled at his chest, tugging insistently through the sleepy contentedness he was drowsing in until he could no longer ignore it. He lifted his head from your shoulder and craned it one way and then the other. He stretched as far he could reach without pulling out of you.

“Are you looking for something?”

The corners of his eyes tightened. A cheek flinched. “The mask fell somewhere, and I want it back,” he said calmly, but with an undercurrent of rising urgency.

He had spent the last several months hiding his face, and one satisfying fuck wasn’t enough to make him ready to be exposed for so long. It was impressive he’d lasted as long as he had without it, but an invisible time limit was fast approaching. You understood, any sympathized. You would miss him, though.

“I’ll help look. Can I kiss you one more time without it?”

“Hurry up,” he said, anxious to retreat into the familiar safety of being covered.

You turned your head and pressed your lips tenderly against his cheek, so soft and yielding, so without judgment toward the patchwork of grafts and scars he had been living in shame of, that he turned his head to kiss you on the mouth. For the frozen fraction of a second that he made contact, a bolt of terror that he was mistaken in putting faith in your reassurances and that you did not actually want him to kiss you and would pull away in disgust paralyzed him. With a low moan, your lips parted over his teeth, tongue sliding over the edges, licking and teasing until he melted and kissed you back.

He released a long, shuddering breath. “You do that so well.”

“Well, you feel so good,” you smiled.

There was no way to find the mask with his softened cock falling out of you, so you lay together until his impatience to be covered outweighed the soothing comfort of his cock still buried warm and safe inside you.

He crawled to the edge of the bed, and you sat up and checked the other side.

The mask had not fallen far. It lay face-down on the plush carpet under the bed, narrowly missing a landing on the bright hardwood that would have chipped or shattered it. Frederick snatched it, and sighed with relief as he slipped it back over his face. Shelter. He was… embarrassed to still need it, after everything, but he was not comfortable with you looking at him. He felt too exposed. Too vulnerable.

He rolled onto his back, spreading his limbs out across the bed.

“That… was quite good. Thank you,” he said awkwardly, as if you’d cooked dinner. It made you laugh softly, and shake your head.

“Thank you. For letting me share that with you.”

The mask was back on securely, so you couldn’t tell if he was blushing, or smiling. But you had a feeling he might have been.

* * *

You were finishing up the last two buttons of your blouse when Frederick returned from the bathroom in clean pants and a fresh shirt to replace the sweaty one, restored to the default appearance with which he always answered the door. You had half expected him to be wearing a Hugh Hefner robe or at least _something_ more relaxed following his conquest, but no. This was a man who would wear formal attire in his own bedroom until you left. Possibly even when he was alone. At least he’d lost the tie.

“Must you leave?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” you said, gathering up your things, “I have three more appointments today and I’m running late.”

“ _Other appointments._ I see,” he grumbled peevishly, chin in the air.

“Don’t be jealous, Frederick,” you grinned. “I don’t fuck any of my other clients.”

“You did not used to,” he corrected, shoulders circling, “but perhaps I have given you ideas. If _I_ was able to seduce you…”

You crossed the room to him and tapped a finger on his chest, brows lowered. “ _You_ are a special case. You’re… intriguing...” As you let your pointer finger drift down the center of his chest you noticed he left the top buttons undone. You hungrily stared at the warm, exposed flesh. Snapping your eyes back up to his, you teased, “At the very least, I am more than satisfied for the rest of the day. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

He gave a proud hum, vibrating the air behind the mask, and wrapped a possessive arm around your lower back. “Can we make another appointment for next week? Officially, I would put you on retainer as a financial consultant assisting me on an ongoing basis...”

Oh, right. You had almost forgotten about the silly paying-for-your-services thing.

“Just ask me on a date, dummy. I’ll say yes,” is what you should have said. But feelings were messy, and he was still so fragile. A relationship bound together by the chaotic whims of emotion probably terrified him, or else he _would_ have just asked you out. Money was safer. Money let him be in control. 

Besides, there was nothing wrong with making some extra cash, was there? He had plenty of it. 

“I’ll mark it in my calendar,” you said, and kissed his cold porcelain lips, your fingers curling around the warm base of his neck. You had a rich, eccentric, hermit sugar daddy now, and you had to admit, that was exciting. 

There was no way being paid for sex could ever come back to bite you in the ass.

With an exhausted groan of effort, he grabbed the cane beside his bed and walked you to the door. On your way out to the car, he pulled open one of the dark curtains to watch you go (you were surprised he didn’t hiss at the sunlight and crumble into a heap of dust). He was eerie, a pale porcelain ghost floating in the window. Anyone else might have worried they were in the opening act of a slasher film, but a warm tingling flooded your chest—a contented drunkenness so strong you had to breathe in purposefully to recenter yourself before you waved to him and drove away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, AO3 now lists this as a completed fic & this was all I ever meant to write, but uhh.... let me know in the comments if you want more? Because... I still have ideas XD


	9. A Lipless Face I Want to Sit On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! An extra chapter!

A month into your arrangement with Dr. Frederick Chilton, and he was still devastatingly insecure about his appearance. He paid you, officially, as a financial consultant for his estate. Unofficially, he was paying you for sex. _Technically_ —as that would be illegal—he was paying for your company, and you just happened to usually (though not always) have sex. Occasionally, he really would have a financial question for you, or he wouldn’t be up for it and you would just cuddle together and watch movies.

But he wouldn’t remove the mask for you again.

You had already seen his face once, scarred, singed bare of hair and eyebrows, lips absent around his white teeth. You didn’t mind it nearly as much as he did—it was _different_ , and what happened to him was tragic, but he was handsome. He seemed happy with the unconditional acceptance you offered, and the kisses you pressed to his not-lips, and you thought he would start letting his guard down.

Yet when he greeted you at the door on your next visit, though he leaned seductively against the door frame, his cocky smirk was hidden behind a stone-faced mask. The more you flirted and prodded for him to take it off, the more prickly and defensive he became.

“I just want to know all of you,” you pouted.

He snapped, “I am not paying you to know me.”

And with that died not only your hope of greater intimacy, but also your plans to tell him to forget about the money. You were going to admit that you only took it in the first place because of how excitingly taboo it was, and that you would rather be his girlfriend, but a ball of ice sank in your stomach as you read between the lines of his cold words. If it wasn’t on his terms, he didn’t want you.

The fact that you had seen his face had been acceptable only briefly, during a moment of intense passion that overrode the alarm bells of anxiety, and now that the moment had passed, knowing you had seen it only made things worse.

He took to fucking you from behind, bending you over a table or pushing your face into the mattress, rather than let you look at him, even with the mask on. He pinned your hands if you tried to touch his head, his neck—anywhere close enough to mask to threaten its security. It was disheartening to think he was withdrawing from you emotionally, but you enjoyed hearing his noises as his cock sank into your tight entrance. “Oh god—oh _god,_ ” he moaned for you. He was very vocal in his pleasure, surprised every time to know that you would have him. No matter how much you voiced your own pleasure, every time you showed up to one of your “appointments” and let him claim you, he still half expected you to run away in disgust. Every time his cock slid between your ass cheeks and found your cunt dripping with arousal for him, he was like a grateful puppy. His vulnerable whimpering behind you turned you on, and his fingers interlaced with yours, squeezing for dear life as he came. It was still intimate. Despite his trying to pull away, he was still intimate in his own, guarded way.

One day you discovered something about Frederick Chilton quite by accident, and that knowledge began to change everything. He gained strength every day, but he was still easily exhausted, so you often catered to him when he was needy. He was getting a little _too_ comfortable treating you as a pet at his beck and call, and so on this particular day when he whined for you to make him a cup of Earl Grey, you whipped about and demanded, “Get it yourself!” He looked shocked by your defiance, unaccustomed to not getting his way, but did as he was told. “Bring me one, too!” you added. He complained the whole time, but did.

When you _begged_ him to do something—pouting, saying please—he might tease you, deny you, or snap with annoyance if he didn’t like the question.

If you _told_ him to do something, he obeyed.

And it seemed, as much as he enjoyed being served, he also gained great satisfaction from being of service. In bed, doubly so. While you first took him to be very dominant—considering his natural role as the wealthy doctor skulking in his mansion who “bought” you, and the way he could get very particular about telling you how to dress, and undress, and what positions he wanted you in—you slowly recognized how much he enjoyed being subservient.

The first time you challenged him when he wanted you to face away from him again, telling him, “No. I’m on top today,” a fire came into his eyes. You grew more assertive in telling him where you wanted him to touch you, and how hard, how fast, and he was eager to please you. He always wanted to please you, and was thrilled when you let him know exactly how—even if it meant looking into your eyes as you fucked. A whole different connection began to grow as you had conversations about it, about who was in charge when, what sorts of things you could ask each other to do, and how to refuse. It wasn’t as though you were doing anything particularly extreme, but it was becoming more of a game, and as such, needed rules. The more he trusted you, the more you took control, and the more you took control, the more he finally relaxed.

When he surrendered to your will, he didn’t have to doubt or question himself, or how desirable he was. Every day, you made him feel that much more confident.

“I’m going to ride your face,” you growled, pushing his shoulders down onto the pillows so his head was up at a slight angle. You crawled on top of him, straddling his chest with your naked thighs. “Mask, or your mouth?” you asked, the timber of your voice demanding an answer, giving him a few seconds to choose.

Behind the mask his eyes were pale, pupils narrowed to pinpricks at the thought of being exposed, and from his throat issued a small tense noise but no words. He was obviously still too nervous to think about removing it, even for your pussy.

“I’m gonna use that mask to make myself come.” You narrowed your eyes and smirked at him, running the tip of your finger down the smooth porcelain contours, your tongue flicking over your lower lip as you crested its pointed nose. He let out a soft moan, chest rising and falling. “When I’m done you can fuck me, but only if you’re a good boy.”

“Yes, mistress.”

You could feel his breathing quicken as you straddled his face, warm puffs of it whistling out the sides of the mask tickling your thighs. His excitement alone was already getting you aroused. You slowly lowered yourself and gasped as your sensitive flesh met cool porcelain. There was no give to its surface, but the smoothly sculpted swell of its lips was tantalizing against your clit. You grasped the headboard for balance, and began to rock, gently at first, spreading your wetness over the hard lips to lubricate them, then grinding your hips against them and feeling shockwaves of pleasure course through your spine as they massaged your clit.

Frederick’s hands gripped onto the back of your thighs, supporting your movements, and spreading your ass cheeks. He groaned. The mask must have been uncomfortably pushing into his face with your weight on it, but his eyes were darkened with lust. He breathed in deeply, smelling you and the slippery essence you were sullying his mask with, and he let out a long, intoxicated moan. He circled his chin, moving the mask against you as his long fingers dug into your thighs, trying to add to your pleasure—which could have been better, honestly. Warm, wet flesh always beat cold, hard porcelain.

“You wanna taste me, Frederick?” you asked, voice thick. He moaned, whimpering with frustration. “I know you want a taste,” you said, rolling your hips against his false mouth. You met his eyes very carefully and held the gaze. “Take off the mask.”

It was a command, but he knew he could refuse it if he wanted to. If it was too far. But signaling you to slow down would be letting you win, and he never admitted defeat. He would never break, never fail to serve you. He admired you, and you deserved anything you wanted from him. His hands left your ass, and you backed off of him as he reached under his chin, and tipped the mask up.

Without any lingering hesitation other than a brief, sweet smile at him, your pussy crashed back down against his face and rode him, hot and dripping, his tongue lapping up your juices. Everything was worth the drawn-out, pornographic, moaning, slurping, voracious noises he made as he ate you out. You nearly came unseated with how intense the waves of pleasure were washing over you, your whole body immediately going warm and tingly and slack, so dizzy you almost forgot where you were. Fortunately his arms wrapped around your hips to draw you in closer, and held you firm against him.

 _“F-fuck,”_ you muttered, regaining some of your senses. “Fuck me with your tongue, Frederick.” Your head rolled back as he pointed his dexterous tongue and slipped into your cunt, muffling his groans as he savored your sweet taste. You bucked your hips into his mouth as he plunged his tongue in and out, writhing inside you.

His cock was rock hard, jutting straight upward out of his unzipped pants, weeping with precum. He reached down to jerk himself off, but you caught his hand and pinned his arm under your leg. “Tut-tut. Me first. Your hands are only to touch me, understand?”

“Yes, mistress,” he rasped.

“Good boy.” You stroked his head, caressing the burned stub of an ear as you lowered yourself back onto his tongue and the lewd wet noises continued. He slid a hand down your ass and between your legs to penetrate you, fucking you with two long, thick fingers, while the other hand angled itself to aid his tongue in working your clit. His lack of lips meant his mouth was lacking a few of the usual functions, like sucking, but the way he used his fingers so expertly to add pressure, gently pinch, and work in tandem with his tongue to increase your sensitivity, you would never have missed it.

A warm floating feeling overtook you without warning, and you felt yourself losing control. “Oh god, I’m gonna come, Frederick,” you whimpered. “I’m gonna come in that mouth. _Oh god, Frederick—oh god—_ ”

His fingers dug into your hips leaving deep impressions in your skin, holding you firm onto his face as he licked you through your orgasm, you writhing and crying out his praise. Wave after wave shook you, until your cries became ragged and desperate—he was holding you in place and overstimulating you. You might have let him, giving in and letting the warm pleasure build up inside you again, even fiercer this time, every muscle burning and overworked, but you hadn’t asked him to do that. You poked him a little roughly in the middle of the forehead, and told him, “That’s enough.” He whined and loosened his tight grip so you could get up. “Such an eager little slut, Frederick. You’d eat me out all day if I’d let you, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yes.” He swallowed, eyes gleaming wickedly at the idea. A mingling of your wetness and his saliva dripped down his chin.

You laughed, low and teasing. “I thought you would be excited… it’s time for your reward now.” Leaning back, you reached for his hard and waiting cock. It throbbed in your hand, and he sucked a shallow breath.

“May I fuck you now, _mistress?_ ”

His voice was soft and eager, but you didn’t miss the edge of something more demanding creeping into it. “Ask nicely,” you said.

“Please let me fuck you.”

You grabbed a towel from the side of the bed and wiped off his chin. He didn’t flinch as you touched his face, well beyond that now. A smile slowly spread over your lips. “Since you were such a good boy, getting me off so well...” you pretended to think it over, “Fuck me, as hard as you want.”


End file.
